


Light and Dark

by Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Electricity, F/M, Fluff, Height Kink, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:31:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara, the Doctor, a chandelier, and some other toys: what's not to like?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light and Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at: http://eleventy-kink.livejournal.com/942.html?thread=3814574t3814574
> 
> Bit of dark roleplaying on the part of the Doctor, but generally sort of fluffy.

“Clara!” he calls, standing on a chair in the ballroom. “There you are! I need your help.” She quirks an eyebrow, but walks over, and he explains. “Light bulb's burnt out, the TARDIS won't replace it herself, and I can't find a proper ladder anywhere. The whole thing is driving me a bit batty,” she politely says nothing, “but I think I need you to hold me steady so I can stretch and reach the fixture. Just like so,” he says, and directs her around until she is standing facing his crotch, which is at about eye-level. He leans out and stretches up; his erection is practically grazing her cheek through his trousers. “Aaannnnddd...Got it!”

No sooner has he gotten the new bulb in, she unzips his fly and takes his cock in one hand, her other hand continuing to brace him as it rests on his belly. “Clara,” he says, voice low, almost husky.

“Yes, Doctor?” she replies, head cocked innocently to one side. She traces one finger up the bottom of his shaft. “Is something the matter up there?” Some advantages to being short, after all, she thinks, licking the palm of her hand and swirling it over his tip.

“Claaaaaaah-raaah!” His hands have a white-knuckled grip on the chandelier and—oh dear, now she's swallowed him—and he really should be able to hold on more tightly than this and this is an authentic Rococo chandelier and how is her tongue doing that? And he probably won't regenerate if he falls from this height and is he certain that Clara isn't an assassin sent to fuck him to death and make it look like an accident? Because the way his knees are buckling and the chain is swaying, he doesn't feel like he has so firm a grasp on anything, let alone his twelfth life. He certainly isn't sure why this feels so good, he notes, seconds before he comes.

When he finally releases the chandelier and opens his eyes again, Clara is still standing there demurely and his member has been tucked happily away. “Do you need help coming down, Doctor?” she asks, eyes twinkling.

He grumbles a bit, but he takes her arm anyway. “Should beat you senseless for that,” he kids. “Could have pulled the chandelier down on us and broken both our necks, and you wouldn't have regenerated, my precious Clara.”

“I might like that,” she begins, pulling him into a dance. “Not the falling chandelier bit,” she corrects herself, tone clipped. “But it pushes a certain button to think of me, fierce but petite, being beaten into submission by a rangy, muscular, mysterious alien. Anything could happen. Except,” her face radiated impish glee and they spun about, “that I could stop you by saying a word.” She trembled all over. “Bit sexy, really.” She grinned, confidence visible once more. “What do you say, Doctor? Do what you like to me? Just remember the old rule: do no harm.”

“I think I can manage that; anything specifically off-limits?”

“Well, nothing that wouldn't heal in two days.”

He laughs, face suddenly shadowed despite the chandelier. “Oh, Clara,” he begins guiding them off the dance floor, looming over her. “This ship contains a world of medical marvels. I could heal anything in two days.” 

“Little bit creepy, there, Doctor.”

His face suddenly becomes pained. “Sorry.”

She kisses him and lets herself be backed off the floor and into the corridors. “Don't worry, you didn't ruin the mood. In fact, you sort of enhanced it. Don't break any bones or leave any scars, and stop if I say 'Sardines,' okay?”

“Your wish is my command, Clara Oswald.” He rubs his hands together. “Right, so I'm the vicious alien despot. I've seen enough of those, shouldn't be a problem. You be the plucky rebel lieutenant I'm torturing for information, and secretly hoping you'll develop a case of Stockholm syndrome.” 

“Kinky.” She smiled, face puckish. “Shall we?” 

“You're the boss!” He pauses. “No, wait, the other one,” the Doctor says, realizing that he should be getting into character. “What are you doing aboard my ship, spy?” He grabs her roughly and swings her over his shoulder.

“Let me go, tyrant!” she cries, pounding futilely on his back as his long strides carry them down the hall. “Our rebel cause is just and valiant and...rebellious!” He tries and fails not to laugh as he slings her onto a bed in the center of the room. 

“Talk,” he demands, pinning her wrists to the mattress. Stony silence. He affects a sigh. “I should probably start by tearing your rebel uniform from your comely form.” He hesitates for a moment to let her say “Sardines.” She says nothing and he produces the sonic, using it to pop every button, clasp, and zipper on her outfit, then finishes the job himself. She gasps, but doesn't object. Nor does she bat an eye when he produces two pairs of handcuffs. “Birthday presents from, erm, Colonel Song,” he explains, cuffing her wrists to the corners of the headboard.

“I'd rather die than reveal our secrets,” she makes the cliché boast.

“I'll have you begging for death,” he gives the cliché response. The Doctor is feeling a bit manic, and he starts out by tickling the soles of her feet, then to using a riding crop he grabs from a toy-covered table and those long arms to land blows wherever he likes all over her body. She curls up to shield her body from the blows, and he pulls out a set of shackles. These go on her ankles, and though she struggles, she has little leverage compared to him, and he effortlessly takes her legs and places them where he wants them before fastening the shackles in place, and now she is spread-eagled on the bed. Her hands tighten on the chains of the handcuffs as he delivers another layer of the little, stinging welts, and she moans and begs him to 'stop' even as she revels in it. 

“Still so very brave?” he asks, standing and surveying her body, which looks even tinier naked and on the enormous bed. He produces a set of three clamps and begins juggling (and nearly dropping) them. “I wonder where these could go?” he addresses each clamp as it comes up to meet his nose. “Yes, I think that's an excellent idea,” and he plummets down upon her like a hawk, attaching the clamps to her clit and her nipples, tightening them until she cannot help but yelp. He stands again and takes out the sonic. “I perhaps should have mentioned,” he says, thumbing a button on the sonic, almost lovingly, the way she might wish him to rub a thumb up her soaking slit. “These aren't just ordinary clamps.” Her eyes go wide, but she says nothing until he activates the electricity. Then she moans, begs, pleads for anything, gradually becoming incoherent. Meanwhile, he undresses, tossing the sonic from hand to hand and hand to pocket as he does so, letting the whims of fate graze buttons and adjust the current within the bounds he has set. Once he is naked, he gives the sonic one final flip in his hand, causing a shudder to go through her body, then turns off the voltage. 

“Please?” she asks.

“Please what?” he replies, removing the clamps and setting them to one side with the sonic.

“Please fuck me,” she replies. Her skin is slick with sweat but her eyes have regained their usual coherent focus.

“Do you think you deserve it?” he asks, deliberately drawing their pleasure out, taking her head in his hand, applying firm pressure to her cheekbones. “Because I'm very old, Clara. Very experienced. Very patient.” The heel of his hand is a more-than-casual weight upon her throat. “I can wait, and those nightstands have plenty of ideas in them. We could be here for days.” He traces a wide sweep with his other arm that makes 'days' sound more like 'eternity.'

“Please?” she asks again, and this time his only response is to thrust into her over and over until she is engulfed by him.

***

Later, once he has finished with her, he unlocks the cuffs and shackles, and spoons comfortably around her. She smiles very quietly to herself and nuzzles the crown of her head against his chin. “Was that...good, then?” he asks. He isn't sure about tapping into his darker side, even with permission, even now.

“Tip-top,” she assures him. She yawns, and snugs even tighter against him. “Goodnight, Doctor.”

“Goodnight, Clara.”


End file.
